


The Burning Time

by clgfanfic



Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tag from "Only 36 Hours Until Dawn"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burning Time

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Our Favorite Things #12 and later in Boss And Bodacious: Special Collection #1

Nick sat in the dark salon of the _Riptide_ , watching the final scene of _Brief Encounter_ for the eighth time.  Why the damned show was still running on cable, and why he was watching it again, he wasn't sure.

 _That's a lie_ , he realized.  It was just easier to believe that the maudlin sentiment was responsible for the tears that crowded his vision, but that was a lie.  He missed her, God, how he missed her.

_Renae St. Clair._

Renae St. Clair was dead, in name anyway.  The federal witness protection program would have given her a new name by now and moved her to a new community – _someplace unassuming and average_.  They would have found her a job, a house.

The woman he'd fallen in love with was gone and in her place there lived a new woman.  A stranger.

He wondered what the chances were that he'd ever accidentally meet her on a street somewhere.  _Very, very, very slim and none_ , he decided.

_You know that after I testify we can never see each other again…_

Memories, that's what he had left, a set of very brief, very precious memories.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick sat on the floor in front of the snapping fireplace.  Glancing over, he noticed Renae's attention was focused on what she was writing.

"What're you working on?" he asked, automatically picking up a wood chip to keep his hands occupied.

There was a single shoulder shrug.  "Sort of like a diary, I guess," she explained.  "After I moved down here I, uh, started to jot down my thoughts every day so I could keep a record of my insanity."  She smiled.  "Since there really wasn't anyone I could talk to, I couldn't vent my frustrations so I just write…  It helped."

Nick studied the small piece of wood as he turned it over in his fingers.  "I know what you mean.  I used to do that when I was in Vietnam.  By the time I rotated back to the States I had a whole bunch of stuff."  He tossed the piece of wood into the dancing flames.

There was a moment of silence, then she asked, "Well, what was it like to read it over when you were home?"

He selected another wood chip.  "I burned it," he answered, then dared to glance up at her.  She gave him a questioning look that prompted him to go on.  He did with a half-shrug and a quick lopsided smile.  "I burned it with some other things."  He stared at his hands, not daring to meet her gaze as he added, "You don't need notes to jog your memory…"  He tossed the second chip into the fire.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes, Nick took a deep breath and tried to gather his fracturing emotions.  Why the hell had he allowed himself to fall in love with her anyway?  He knew who she was, knew where she was going.

 _No one falls in love with the right person_ , she told him while they rested in a Mexican canyon.  _You just fall in love.  There's usually very little choice…_

He wondered if she had felt it even then: the love that had sprung so quickly and so unexpectedly between them.  Probably.  He sure as hell had.  Even there, in the middle of nowhere, he had loved her.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and let the tears come.  They fell onto the carpet, disappearing into the fibers like tiny ghosts.  He hadn't felt so vulnerable in a long, long time.  Not since late 1972 when he'd finally made it home from the 'Nam…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick walked off the airplane, his duffel on one shoulder, his uniform rumpled from the long flight.  He glanced around, knowing that the sites and sounds should look familiar, but they didn't.  It was too cold, too gray, and too quiet.  He moved along with the other returning soldiers, not paying attention to the general commotion that started to wash over him as they neared the terminal.

Stepping inside he was met by the metallic and oil smell of the airport.  That was more familiar, and he itched to be in the seat of a Huey, hopping over tree-lines, wagging to avoid enemy fire.  He felt strangely safe and bored.

A high-pitched screech broke through the thoughts and he looked up just in time to see a young woman dressed in tie-dye and flowers spit on his chest.  "Killer!" she snarled at him.  "Rapist!  Baby killer!"

He and the other soldiers continued past the woman and others like her who hurled insults and hate at them.  The words struck Nick like hailstones, sharp and painful, but he couldn't find any words with which to defend himself.  He gave up, looking around and suddenly feeling very lost and confused.

What was going on?  Where was his grandmother?

Then he remembered.  He had landed in San Francisco.  He had to find the bus depot…

Glancing to his left, he spotted Robbie Sparn, a nice kid from Altuna, and grabbed the boy's arm to keep the panic from overwhelming him.

"Something wrong?" Robbie asked.

"Where's the bus depot, man?"

"This way," Robbie said with a soft laugh.  "Man, you're trippin'.  Stick with me, Nicky.  I'll make sure you get your sorry ass home."

Nick nodded, willing to let Sparn take care of the details.  "Yeah, thanks."  He just wanted to go home, climb into bed, and sleep for a lifetime or two.  That wasn't too much to ask, not after what he'd just been through.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Sitting in the last bench on the bus, Nick listened to Robbie snore in the seat next to the window.  Staring up the aisle, he tried to shake the numbness that had settled over him, but nothing he did seemed to help.

With a heavy sigh, Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out his orders.  He'd been so excited about getting out the Nam that he hadn't bothered looking at his new orders.  Unfolding the paper, he read…  Assigned to the Army's military police.  Okay, that he expected.  Eighteen weeks of training.  _Oh, man, that's a long time!_   At Fort McCelland, Alabama.  _Ala-fuckin'-bama?_

Nick kept reading to see where he was going after the training.

Fort Polk, Louisiana.

_Louisiana_ _?  Shit!_

He hated the South.  _Bunch of stupid red-necks…_

That was all he needed.  Why the hell had he accepted that damned commission to full lieutenant anyway?  He wasn't cut out to be an officer, let alone a lifer.

He refolded the paper and returned it to his pocket, then let his head drop back against the seat and closed his eyes.  What else could go wrong?

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

A taxi took him from the bus depot to his grandmother's house, the driver refusing to talk to him.  Too tired to ask why, and afraid he knew the answer, Nick sat in the backseat, staring out the window until the car stopped.

He stared out at the old house.  It was dark and quiet, but given the hour, he wasn't too surprised.  He briefly considered getting a hotel room for the night, but he was home and all he wanted to do was stay there.

Climbing out, Nick fished out his wallet and paid the man, giving him a modest tip, and retrieved his duffel.  The driver pulled away without a single word, leaving him standing alone on the curb, wondering why he still felt lost.

Nick looked around.  The old neighborhood looked just like it had when he'd left – except for his grandmother's front yard.  The grass looked like it had been left unchecked for a couple of weeks.  And it wasn't like his grandmother to let the lawn get this far out of control.

 _Well, I'll just mow it in the morning_ , he decided, walking up the sidewalk to the porch.  Taking the three steps in one stride he stepped up to the screen door and knocked.

He waited, then knocked again.  "Nana?" he called.  "Nana, it's me, Nick."

 _Maybe she went to bed early_ , he reasoned.  _Maybe she isn't feeling well.  That would account for the lawn._

He knocked, then rang the bell.

Nothing.

Dropping his duffel next to the door, he walked to the end of the porch and moved a terracotta pot full of half-dead geraniums.  He frowned as he picked up the spare key.  Nana loved those geraniums.

Returning to the door, he opened the screen and inserted the key.

"Nicky?  Is that you?"

Nick jumped and spun, squinting into the darkness to see who was talking to him.  "Nana DiGiacomo?"

The old woman smiled widely and gave him a hug.  "Oh, Nicky, it's so good to see you home.  Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Nana DiGiacomo," he assured her.  "I guess grandma's not feeling real good, huh?"

The old woman took a step back, a hand coming up to her mouth.  "Oh, Nicky.  I'm so sorry.  You don't know?"

"Know what?" he asked, feeling the pit of his stomach turn icy.

Rachel DiGiacomo sat down on one of the padded front porch chairs.  She pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and dabbed her eyes before she looked up and said, "Nicky, your grandmother died.  Two weeks ago."

"Died?" he echoed, kneeling down in front of her.  "How?  When?  Why wasn't I notified?"

Rachel shook her head.  "Your Uncle Anthony called the Army," she said.  "A man told him that you'd be notified, even over there in Vietnam.  We knew it was close to when you'd be coming home.  Anthony was hoping they'd let you come a little sooner."

Nick sat back on the porch, the numbness taking hold again.  "How'd she die?"

"It was peaceful, Nicky," the old woman assured.  "The doctor said it was probably a stroke, in her sleep.  She never woke up."  She crossed herself.  "God was kind, Nicky.  I pray that we all go so peacefully."

Nick nodded.  "Uh," he said, climbing to his feet.  "What about the house?  Does someone else live here now?"

"Oh no, your Uncle Anthony's taking care of everything.  Teresa left you the house, Nicky.  Anthony's been by, and we've been watching, waiting for you to come home."

"Home," Nick repeated the word, trying to remember what it meant.

Rachel stood and gave him another hug.  "Get some sleep, Nicky," she told him.  "I'll call Anthony in the morning.  He's been busy.  Everyone wants their roses and trees cut back in the fall.  But he'll come by with all the papers."

Nick nodded.  Anthony's nursery always kept the old man too busy for his own good.  Anthony DiGiacomo, his grandmother's youngest brother.  Her older brother had married her best friend, Rachel D'Luca.  He tried to smile at the old woman, who was like a second grandmother to him.  "I'll do that, Nana DiGiacomo. I'll, uh, I'll talk to you in the morning."

She nodded.  "Your grandmother was a good woman, Nicky.  She was so excited you were finally coming home.  She was so proud of you."

Nick nodded, not trusting his voice.

Rachel carefully descended the stairs and returned to her own house across the street.

Nick turned back to the door and, using the spare key, opened it.  Stepping inside, he turned on the living room light.  Everything was exactly like he remembered, every picture, every silly knickknack, every piece of furniture.  But the house was cold and stuffy.

Leaving his duffel in the middle of the living room floor, Nick opened a window and turned up the heat.  He climbed the stairs and walked down to his room.  Turning on the light there, he felt like he was stepping back in time.  His bed was made, which was unusual, but the dresser was a mess, a football, baseball mitt, and several trophies dominating the clutter.  The posters on his walls were out of date, but at least they were familiar.

He walked over and sat down on the edge of the twin bed.  Leaning forward, he pulled his dresser drawer open.  Inside were jeans and t-shirts.  He closed the drawer, stood and turned off the light, then walked back to the bed and lay down.  The soft mattress felt familiar, but wrong.  He rolled over.  That didn't help.

Standing up again, he stripped out of his uniform and climbed under the covers dressed in briefs, t-shirt, and socks.  He lay in the silence, listening, but none of the familiar creaks and groans echoed from his grandmother's room.  He forced his eyes shut, but they popped open again.

After almost an hour, Nick grabbed his pillow and blanket and returned to the living room.  He tossed the pillow down on one end of the couch, then lay down with the blanket wrapped around him.

When he finally woke up, it was the following evening.

Nick lay on the couch, staring up at the shadowed-darkened ceiling, wondering if he had even slept at all.

After a trip to the bathroom, he wandered into the kitchen and opened the pantry. In the back he found what he was looking for, a bottle of Jack Daniels that his grand-mother kept for Anthony when he stopped by for a visit.  He grabbed the bottle and, ignoring his grumbling stomach, opened the cap and took a long drink.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

He waited until it was darker, but not the inky blackness of the long nights he'd just spent in-country – nights he was sure lasted longer than twelve hours, longer than twelve years.  Those were nights that lasted an eternity and ended with a daily birth into Hell.

Light from the street lamps and the windows of surrounding houses cast pale shadows across the overgrown grass in the backyard.  Standing alone, he snorted.  He could see well enough to fly a dust-off.  Didn't these people know anything?  Didn't they know Mr. Charles could walk mortars in on them?

Staggering toward the old brick barbecue, Nick paused every few steps to take a long swallow from the bottle of Jack Daniels he carried in one hand.  In his free hand he dragged his duffel bag along the ground beside him.

Reaching the large grill that his grandfather had built before Nick was born, he bent over and squinted into the hollow below the metal grill.  Someone had tossed a load of mowed grass in the hollow and it had slowly turned brown and dry.  Leaves had blown in, too, almost filling the space.  Setting the bottle down on the bricks, he dug into his pocket, pulling out a matchbook.

He struck a match and dropped it into the middle of the leaves and grass, the dry tinder quickly catching fire.  Several more matches followed, the pit roaring to life.

Pulling his duffel open, Nick reached in and pulled out his OD uniforms.  Holding them up like he was shoving them into God's face, Nick growled, "Green sucks!  Green sucks!  I don't wanna see no more goddamned green sucks!"

Reaching out, he used the uniform to protect his hand as he tipped the metal grill off, sending it tumbling to the ground.  Then he rolled the olive drab material up and shoved it into the flames.  Pants and another shirt followed.

The fire fell back, almost smothered under the weight of the cotton material, then they caught fire and started to burn.  Nick squealed with delight, dancing in front of the flames like an Indian extra in an old Hollywood western.

He stopped, swallowed more of the whiskey, then dug into the duffel again, this time pulling out several paper notebooks.  He stared at them for a moment, his chin starting to tremble.  Then, before he could change his mind, he shoved the entire stack into the fire, the cardboard covers immediately curling back to expose the printed pages inside.

He watched his words disappear into smoke, feeling empty and sick.

Reaching for the bottle, his stomach revolted and he staggered several feet away and heaved.  His knees gave way and he dropped into the mixture of alcohol and stomach acid, heaving again and again until there was nothing left.

Crawling back to the warmth of the fire, Nick pressed his back against the warm bricks, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them with his arms.  Resting his pounding head on his knees, he cried.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Pushing himself out of his chair, Nick headed down the stairs to his room.  That had been his "burning time," the moment when he'd hit emotional bottom.

_If I hadn't connected with Cody again at Polk…_

Nick shook his head.  There was no reason to revisit the might-have-beens.  He did connect with Cody.  And he got his life together and he'd made something out of it.  Something he was proud of.

So what if he hadn't met the right woman along the way.

So what if he hadn't gotten married and had a couple of kids.  There was still time.

If he found someone else like Renae.

 _"No one falls in love with the right person._   _You just fall in love.  There's usually very little choice…"_

He shook his head.  No.  A woman like Renae St. Clair only came along once in a lifetime.  Anyone else he met would have to live up to her.  And worse, live up to her memory.

_"…I should've written a lot about you since we spent the whole day together, but so far I can only come up with one thing."_

_"It's okay, don't worry about it.  I leave a lot of people speechless."_

Sitting on the edge of his bunk, Nick opened his nightstand and pulled out an old yellow-page journal, and the journal Renae had given him.  He opened Renae's, re-reading the words she had written about him, about them.  The memories filled his mind with every word, images of her face in the firelight, the sweet love they'd shared that night, the next day when he had to let her go…

_She held up the journal.  "I didn't want to burn it," she said.  "But like you said, there are some things you don't need notes for to jog your memory."_

_He cautiously accepted the volume, knowing as he did that it was her way of saying goodbye.  The pages fell open to her comments on their night of love-making._

It wasn't fair.  Life had never been fair.  His father left when he was a kid.  His mother tried to raise the family, but it took a heavy toll on her health, and before long he was living with his grandmother.  She was a feisty old Italian woman, but she loved him.

He was so sure he'd see her again when he left for Vietnam, just like he was sure that one day he'd see Renae again.  But Nana wasn't there when he got home, and Renae wasn't ever going to return to his life, either.

_Tentatively, he reached out, slipping his hands behind her neck and drawing her close enough so he could kiss her lips.  She pressed briefly against his shoulder, then pulled back and he kissed her again, on the forehead, then again on her mouth before drawing her into a tight hug…_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Uncle Anthony found him passed out in the backyard the next morning.  He shook him awake – cold, shivering, and sick.  He took Nick to the hospital and they put him in bed, gave him IV fluids and antibiotics, and left him alone.

"You're damned lucky you didn't kill yourself, Nicko," Anthony scolded him.

Nick stared out the window, watching the seagulls fly by.

"I picked up what was left of your things and put them back inside.  And I brought the papers by.  You can do whatever you want with the house.  Maybe you should rent it out, make a little something to supplement your Army check."

"Thanks."

"Hey, Nicko, you sure you're all right?"

Nick continued to stare out the window, but nodded.  "Yeah, I'm fine, Uncle Anthony."

The doctor let him leave the next day.  Nick returned to the house long enough to sign the house over to Anthony and pack up his duffel.  He took another taxi back to the bus depot and bought a ticket to Alabama.  He was three weeks into MP training before he discovered the last journal at the bottom of his duffel.  It was all about "Pit Bull" Johnson, Cody Allen, Myron Goldman and Zeke Anderson, Paul Ironhorse, Martin Riggs, and a strange-looking young girl working with him.

He wasn't sure why he kept it, but he did.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Nick put the two journals back in the drawer and closed it.  Standing, he climbed the stairs back to the salon.  Cody and Murray greeted him, looking worried.  Nick grinned and glanced at his shoes, knowing that his friends knew exactly what it was that had him so upset.

"Nick?" Cody questioned quietly.  "You okay, buddy?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Like hell you are," the blond replied, taking a step closer.  "Look, we just didn't feel right about leaving you here."

Nick fought the wry smile off his face.  He wasn't a very good liar.

_"You speak a lot with your eyes… and it's difficult to say in words what some people can say with a look.  Your eyes always tell the truth.  That's why I trust you."_

"I guess it's just been a little harder for me to let go than I expected," Nick admitted.

"That's okay, you know?  I mean, she was a special lady," Cody said, stepping up next to Nick.

"I'll be okay," he assured the pair.  "Really."

"We know," Cody said, glancing to Murray, who nodded his agreement.

"We don't have to go to this party," Murray said, staring toward the coffee maker.  "I'll just make–"

"No."

Cody and Murray looked at him.

"We do have to go, Murray," he said with a sigh.  Reaching out, he picked up his jacket.  "We owe it to Renae… and to ourselves."  Unrolling his sleeves, he buttoned them, then pulled the jacket on.

Cody gave him a nod, then reached out and tugged Nick's tie back up.  "Okay, then we go."

Nick met his best friend's gaze.  "Thanks for coming back," he said softly.

"It's the least we could do," Murray said, reaching out to give Nick's shoulder a quick squeeze.

"Come on," Cody said, resting a hand on Nick's back and guiding him to the wheelhouse door.

"Hey, Cody?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really going to miss her."

"I know, buddy.  I know."


End file.
